When I Go To Sleep At Night
by Aderyn Du
Summary: (YAOI) A dark fic about Trowa and feelings that he knows won't be returned.


When I Go To Sleep At Night  
  
Warnings: yaoi, self-mutilation, hints at rape(it's like one sentence), general disturbin' stuff  
Rating: R  
  
***  
  
Everyone has an addiction, don't they?  
  
Addiction comes in different forms for different people. Drugs, money, and sex are considered to be the main ones--to some, the only ones. But there are other things. Dark things, in most people's opinions, but for me this is bliss. They say these things are signs of an unhealthy mind, and maybe they're right. But it makes me feel so good that I wonder...  
  
Right now, I slide a straight razor over my leg in an almost thoughtful manner. The flesh of my wrist is always more tempting, so soft and tender and pale with that dark vein...Even now I can see myself doing it. I shiver at the image of dark blood running over that pale skin, staining it.   
  
Brushing the thought aside, I take a deep breath and release it. No matter how much I want someone, anyone, to know, I can't cut myself in a place so obvious. This is my secret, the only thing I can control these days. They might suspect something, but...It's not as if they should care.   
  
Sometimes I don't think it matters either way.   
  
Other times my heart aches at the thought of him not caring. It's stupid for one to care for Death, especially trash like me. I don't even have a chance with him, and here I throw myself against the walls of a cage enforced by reason, hurting myself worse in my pitiful hope.   
  
Deciding that this is the moment to act, I slice the thin blade about three inches across the inside of my leg. I let out a soft sigh as I look at the welt it brings, a welcome sight. It takes a moment for the blood to run, and there isn't much. I scowl at the wound and try again, this time across the top of my thigh and harder. With delicate precision, I make a slice in my hip, wondering what it will look like. The blade falls from my hand as I admire my handiwork.  
  
A dreamy sense of completion falls over me as I watch a bit more blood seep from my flesh, that moment when I know I've done enough. There's always a climax to addiction, isn't there? That moment when you can bask in the glory of what you've done--until you feel the craving again. That's why it's an addiction, of course; you enjoy yourself, savor the sensations, and then you want to emulate that feeling again and again. You know it's addiction when it's always the last thing on your mind when you go to sleep at night and the first thing you think of in the morning, when you crave it almost constantly during the time in between.  
  
It's really quite pretty, in a bizarre way. Three small, red lines, none of them quite parallel to eachother. The first one has nearly scabbed over, but the other two are bleeding at least slightly. I reach over for the antibacterial gel and bandages I keep by the bed and stare at the wounds for a moment before applying both to the marks on my thigh. I pull out a band-aid for the other one. I can't risk an infection because that might inhibit my performance in a battle, though I don't really care if it scars.  
  
Lately, I've needed more to keep me going. At first--it's been so long that I don't remember when I started it--I only needed one small slice. Then again, "lately" is also the time I realized how I feel about a certain pilot...with no hope of the feelings ever being returned.  
  
My mind keeps a tally of every nice he does for me, everything that could make me hope against hope. Little things. He smiled at me this morning. He said hi to me before anyone else. His eyes lingered on me in the hall.  
  
I want to hope, but I know I'll only hurt myself worse. How could I ever hope to win his affection? He has such a vibrant personality. His eyes never rest on anything for more than a few seconds, me included. What could a broken boy who rarely speaks offer him when he has a firm lock on the perfect soldier's heart? Heero's feeling's may not be reciprocated, but he's more than I could ever be.  
  
With a sigh, I shut off the light and turn over in my cold bed. As I close my eyes, trying to clear my mind to fall into the release that comes with sleep, I find that my train of thought won't leave me alone. All I can see behind my closed eyelids is visions of laughing, violet-eyed gods of death.  
  
It seems I have another addiction. Only this time, I can't even hope for a fix. 


End file.
